


Red Perennials

by hampop



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, Illness, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, hanahaki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24795826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hampop/pseuds/hampop
Summary: For you, the petals were from the same type of flowers that grew on the side of the mansion—crimson red and leaf-like in appearance. And just as they would creep up the white brick walls of the mansion, they were beginning to creep up the insides of your lungs. (Male!ReaderxJindosh, Hanahaki Disease, Fic Requested)
Relationships: Kirin Jindosh/Reader
Kudos: 18





	Red Perennials

**Author's Note:**

> Small disclaimer: I had never head of hanahaki disease before writing this! I did some research and I hope I've done the trope justice here. I apologize for anything that might contradict the way Hanahaki disease is supposed to work; I wanted to make it believable-ish within the dishonored universe. Hope you guys like it!  
> (Hanahaki disease is a fictional disease in which someone begins coughing up flower petals when they are in love with someone who is allegedly not in love with them. Hanahaki disease can only be cured by having the love genuinely reciprocated or having the roots removed from one's lungs.)

You stare at your reflection until dawn begins to break through the small bathroom window. You look old, like you’ve been awake for decades. You press your forehead to the glass and sigh. It was time to go into work. 

You were one of the three trained guards Corvo had sent to watch over Kirin Jindosh after the coup. You and your companions would take turns doing 24 hour shifts at the mansion—surveilling Jindosh as he went about various activities, monitoring his mail and contacts, and, mostly, keeping him from away from his laboratory. 

Of the three of you, it seemed that you were the only one who seemed to like the natural philosopher. Michaels enjoyed making empty threats at the man and Jamison was generally just a hardass, refusing to let Jindosh do simple things like have company over for a smoke. 

When you were on duty, you and Kirin would sit out on his balcony while he demonstrated how rubbish he was at oil painting while you adamantly disagreed. Anton Sokolov who? Or you might walk with him about the mansion while he monologued as he so often liked to do; he was dreadfully bored nowadays. Your most treasured pastime was taking him into to town, letting him guide you around his city, showing you his favorite places to eat and watch theatre. 

You were terribly in love with him. And it was obviously one-sided, the evidence was clear.

The first night you got home and started coughing was just the first of many. You had heard of it happening to other people; your distant cousin had died from it. It had different names, but the symptoms were always the same. Coughing up flower petals—an indication of unrequited love. 

For you, the petals were from the same type of flowers that grew on the side of the mansion—crimson red and leaf-like in appearance. And just as they would creep up the white brick walls of the mansion, they were beginning to creep up the insides of your lungs. Breathing was a laboring process; it was hard not to notice something was amiss. Jamison and Michaels had seen you acting strange and had assumed you had just come down with a cold, allowing you to take a week off from work. But in the time away from Kirin, it seemed to just get so much worse. You couldn’t tell them what was happening; most people—and the Abbey—considered the disease to be linked with black magic and the void and would shun individuals who fell ill. 

So, for the time being, all you could do was write your last will and testaments.

Death seemed inevitable. Having the roots removed surgically was still a relatively new and undiscovered procedure that often could result in death anyway. And the alternative? Having Kirin eventually reciprocate the feelings? Even less likely. 

In the time that you’d spent with him, you learned he could be fascinating and charming. But just as quickly you learned that he was nearly incapable or realizing or reciprocating romantic feelings. You weren’t sure if it was simply how he preferred to live his life or if he genuinely was oblivious to your advancements. Either way, you were getting worse and that meant he didn’t feel the same. 

You arrive at the mansion on time even though you had to first send word to Jamison that morning that you’d be coming in for a shift. He meets you at the front door and regards you with suspicion at the obvious decay in your health. But, being the stoic individual that he was, he said nothing of it and stepped aside at the front door, allowing you inside before taking his leave. 

As you struggle to breathe while walking into the main lobby, you can hear the intercom system crackle to life. Soon, that familiar smarmy voice fills your ears and you feel your heart skip. 

“There you are. I recognize your footsteps. Although, I must say, your breathing is quite labored. Maybe you weren’t lying to get out of work after all.”

You greet him soon after—he was lounging in the glass lobby with a large book open on his lap. He closes it when you approach, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your decrepit state. “By the void,” he remarks, “You look worse than usual.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, struggling to make the words sound normal with petals sticking to walls of your throat. It hurts, but you fight the urge to cough. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He analyzes the way you speak and grows more suspicious, standing up and walking over to where you stood. You take a step back from him and he pauses. “Well. Why don’t you let me examine you? I’m no physician, but not having a certificate on paper hasn’t stopped me before.” There’s a playful smirk on his thin, handsome face. 

It was so hard to say no to him. And with so little time left, why not come clean and let him find out? You’d been away for a week, hiding from him, and it had accomplished absolutely nothing. If anything, it had made it worse. And if you were to die of this disease and Kirin were to find out after the fact, what would that achieve? It’d be like completely giving up without even trying. 

So you let him lead you to his esteemed laboratory. You would sneak him in here occasionally unbeknownst to your comrades. He was only allowed to work on things under your constant supervision, never creating anything you didn’t approve of, and he was only given thirty minutes at a time. Today, he assured you this wouldn’t take too long and escorted you to a dissection table where you were told to remove your shirt and lie down. 

Your skin felt hot with embarrassment as you stripped, but it helped that Kirin wasn’t paying any attention. He was too busy digging around a medical bag he kept under one of the many dust-covered desks. As he searched, you lied down and simply listened to him as he mumbled to himself. “Could have sworn . . . perhaps I misplaced it . . . unlikely, but not impossible.”

At last, he comes to stand beside the table and peers down at you, raising an eyebrow. “You haven’t been in here moving my things around, have you? It doesn’t seem like something you’d do, but one can never be too suspicious in my opinion.”

“It was probably Michaels,” you say, having to swallow heavily. In this position, it’s very difficult to ignore the tickle at the back of your throat. “He likes to fuck with you.”

Kirin rolls his eyes. And sets a medical bag down on the rolling table next to him. “I’m not sure if he likes to fuck with me or would like to fuck me. The line is often so thin with men like him.”

Your chest tightens as he says this; whether it was from the petals or the revelation that Kirin was indeed interested in men—you weren’t sure. Either way, not all hope was lost after all. 

“Please tell me I’m not like that,” you say only half-jokingly. He adjusts the tightness on a mouth mirror wand and picks up a dental scalpel. The sight of him wielding such tools both alarms and slightly arouses you—it’s a bizarre feeling. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Kirin admits absently. You get the feeling he doesn’t say those three words very often. “I don’t think you are, but I have been tricked before. I like to think I’m excellent at reading people, but I might be rubbish at guessing someone’s personality. That sort of thing has never come easy to me.”

He rarely speaks so openly about his shortcomings. It humanizes him—its what made you fall so quickly. Someone like him deserved to be listened to and understood; it was an honor to have him trust you.

“I promise I’m not,” you say. Kirin finally looks away from his tools, making eye contact with you. You can feel a cough coming on. “But what kind of man do _you_ think I am?” 

Jindosh’s face is still for a moment before a smirk breaks the tension. He chuckles under his breath and begins to lean closer to you, propping himself up on the table by his elbows. You hold your breath, eyes searching his for an explanation before he stops just inches from your face. Is he going to—?

But instead, he presents to tools and says, “Open up. Let’s see what the damage is.”

You can’t help it. You sit up abruptly, frantically pushing him out of the way before breaking into one of your worst coughing fits yet. Dozens of red petals begin to pool into your open hands, fluttering don between your legs to the metal table. You struggle to catch your breath between bouts of spluttering, growing light-headed. When it at last seems to die down, you’re left with a pile of dark red petals piled up on your lap, spilling over the sides of the table and drifting to the floor. 

Kirin has said nothing. You can see his blurry shape in your peripheral vision but cannot force yourself to face him. 

When the silence stretches on for long enough, Kirin finally stands up from his seat beside the table and moves to come stand in front of you. 

“I’ve never seen this in person,” he admits, his voice light as a feather and somber. “I’ve heard of it, of course. And I’ve read depictions of the aftermath. But I . . .” He trails off, careful to step over the petals on the floor. 

You can’t speak; your throat is caked with petals at this point. They line the inside of your mouth. With every breath, you can feel them flutter around inside your lungs. All you can do is focus on breathing. 

Kirin continues, “How long has this been going on? Two, three weeks? Why didn’t you tell me—I could have preformed the removal surgery myself. You should never have let it get this bad. What were you thinking?”

He stares you down while you helpless sit there, weakly brushing petals off of your chest and clothes. His expression seems to soften. “Who is it? Have you told them? Its not too late. I’ve heard of people recovering quickly and painlessly.” 

Despite the pain you are in, you manage to breathlessly chuckle. This results in more spluttered coughing and several more petals falling down to the pile. You look up at him and give him a defeated smile, one which Kirin struggles to read before finally realizing. 

“Oh,” he says simply. Just ‘oh’. He averts his gaze to the laboratory around him—a sanctuary that provided him with a feeling of protection and comfort. He is at a loss for words, his mind racing. “I see.”

At this, you hang your head in defeat. At least you could say you tried. 

With your eyes no longer upon him, Kirin can look at you again. And as he does so, he wrangles with the feeling stirring in his chest. “I’m afraid this is my fault,” he sighs, sitting down at the edge of the dissection able. “I never would have wanted you to suffer. Jamison, maybe. But you?”

You’re surprised when a hand softly touches your cheek. You look at him, questioning, and he stares back at you with a range of pained expressions. “I learned a long time ago to repress my own desires, you see. So when I have a moment of weakness, I actively try to oppress it. I felt that weakness, and I felt it for you, and I decided the best thing to do—the rational thing to do—was to stifle it. I’m so sorry, my dear. If I had known the pain you would be going through, I would have been a better man and simply confessed to you. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me.” He smiles sadly and runs a thumb over your lips, brushing a petal aside. 

You feel tears begin to prickle at your eyes, leaning into his touch. Please. Please let this mean what you think it means. 

He hesitates, only for a moment, then carefully pulls you forward and meets you in the middle, pressing his lips to yours. It’s so soft—like you had imagined it being. And when he pulls away and you breathe again, a rush of cold, cool air fills your lungs without effort. You look down at the table between the two of you and the petals which had once been spilling over the edge were now gone—vanished. Perhaps it was void magic after all. 

Kirin observes this with curiosity while you gulp in as much air as you can manage. It had been like drowning, slowly, for days. “Interesting,” he says, peering down the floor. “I’ve never read exactly how they disappear, only that it is usually painless. How curious. I’ll have to submit my observation to the local publisher.”

He’s still pondering the complexities of this new mystery when you grab his face with both hands and kiss him again—littering dozens of soft pecks along his lips and cheeks and neck until he is an embarrassed blushing mess, commanding you to stop. 

When you’re finished, both of you look disheveled and in desperate need of a nap. In fact, by the time Michaels showed up for his shift the next morning, the two of you were perfectly well rested and content.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I've learned I have another phobia? Writing the words "throat is caked with petals" nearly made me stop writing. Got goosebumps >~<


End file.
